


Every Moment of the Night

by aurevell



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Eventual Happy Ending, Fae & Fairies, Fae Stiles Stilinski, Light Angst, M/M, fae rules and trickery, slightly medieval setting, two lonely boys who get better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:15:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22302451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurevell/pseuds/aurevell
Summary: When he was younger, Derek’s mother taught him about the fae and their penchant for mischief. So when he meets one in the woods many years later, he steels himself for a trick. As it turns out, though, Stiles isn’t quite what he expected—and avoiding his spell may be much harder than it seems.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 76
Kudos: 473





	1. A Moonlit Run

Derek is still holding back a howl when the strange being slips out from among the trees. 

The forest is wild here, much wilder than the woods he once called home. He can feel it when he runs at night, the way the crisp air stuffs his lungs, seeming to cool him from the inside out. It carries the smell of dampness and loamy earth and pine, but there’s always something else Derek can’t identify, something rich and vaguely sweet.

The people in the village down the mountain say that this land is full of magic. The caves to the east are full of goblins, and elves roam the hills farther off. There are strange lights at night, foul beasts in the rivers, haunting voices from fallen trees. Back when Derek first moved here, many of the villagers tried to talk him out of living alone in these strange woods. There was plenty of work for him on their farms, they’d insisted, for someone with strong hands for mending and cutting and digging. More than one hinted that he might find a match among them, a pretty girl to tend a house. The thought makes his stomach twist even now. 

These days, when he heads down for his weekly supplies, they mostly leave him alone. He’s an outsider, even after two years in these woods. They’re no less polite, but they’ve never understood how he manages to eke out a life here. 

They don’t know what kind of monster he is. They don’t know that he isn’t human like they are. They don’t know that he belongs to these woods, if it’s possible for him to belong anywhere at all. 

On his worst days, he doesn’t mind the thought that something in the forest might kill him. After all, it feels no less than he deserves. Of course, he still fights tooth and nail when the situation demands—when the trolls invaded his territory, for example, or when he ran afoul of a scaled river-demon in the outer glens. But some days, he isn’t quite sure why he’s here, nor does he have anywhere else to go, and so it seems as good a time as any for something in these dark woods to crush him under its thumb. 

On his better days, he sits in the tiny cottage he’s rebuilt, watching the fog creep into the bare branches of the elm trees farther off, and thinks that it’s not a bad life. It’s not the life he’d known or the one he’d expected, but there’s something about the quiet of the woods that he doesn’t mind.

By the light of the moon he patrols his land, the little corner of the world he considers his territory. In wolf form, he howls for his dead and his living. 

The moon is full tonight, glinting now and then behind a sea of rippling clouds, and Derek can feel it sing in his blood. He’s run for miles across his land, across his home, and though the energy never quite fades, he feels the sudden urge to sit and watch the forest come alive in the night. He finds a copse of trees in a shallow lowland, rimmed by thick bursts of spring coneflowers, and comes to rest on a weathered log. 

Somewhere in the world, Laura and Cora are alive, Laura with her mate and her new wolf-cub. Peter may be with them still, though it’s hard to say with his uncle—he’s never been quite the same after the fire. Somewhere, all of them are maybe gathered under the light of the full moon, beside their new pack-mates, to howl into the night sky. Derek is much too far away to hear them, but a part of him imagines that he can. He could join them, howl into the air as well, except for the fact that his old life feels too far behind him, too distant from where he is now. 

He shifts into his human form and settles against the log, and for some time he dozes to the sound of the breeze rustling the leaves overhead. 

Much later, when Derek lays eyes upon the creature, he thinks he might be dreaming. When he straightens to take it in, he knows it can’t be human: no human could move so soundlessly through the wood. Derek hadn’t heard it step through the undergrowth, only catching sight of it now that the silver moonlight glimmers upon its pale skin. Oddly, there’s nothing particularly threatening about it (though Derek knows by now not to place much stock in appearances). There’s only dark hair, dark eyes, a wisp of a smile. It wears a deep green tunic and brown trousers, and if he hadn’t known any better, he might have mistaken it for a lost villager. But its heartbeat is inhuman—thin, almost silent.

“You’re handsome,” it murmurs slyly, slipping easily through the flowers. “What are you after? You’re not one of my normal customers.”

Derek’s spine grows tense as the being approaches. He’s not sure whether it means to fight him, or whether it’s only passing through. “Customers?”

The being shrugs one shoulder delicately. “Either you need something, or you’ve found exactly the wrong place for a nap.” He jerks his head to one side, and Derek’s line of sight follows the movement. Among the coneflowers are little white-capped mushrooms, a perfect ring of them looping around the tiny clearing. 

It’s a fairy circle, Derek realizes. His heart sinks, his eyes snapping back to the creature—the _fae_. The creature seems to read his thoughts. “It’s also a circle of oak, ash, and thorn trees. Twice magic,” the fae adds. “Thrice if you count that it’s the first full moon of spring.” That sly smile hasn’t quite left its face. 

As unassuming as this being appears, Derek is keenly aware that it is likely the most formidable enemy he has ever faced here in these woods, and his mind stutters to life as he works to determine the best strategy to escape in one piece. 

Long ago, Derek’s mother taught him about the fae. Remembering this makes his throat go tight, especially the thought of her wry, exasperated glances to make sure he and his sisters were still listening. Fae are powerful creatures, she’d once explained, with ancient magic and severe tempers that lash out at anyone who doesn’t follow the proper etiquette. Fae are mercurial. They hold grudges. They act in spite. Those on the wrong side of fae magic find themselves trapped in the land of the fae, or seven years into the future, or less their firstborn child. Or just as likely, dead. Derek will have to tread carefully around this stranger if he means to get out of here without a fight he’s sure to lose. He can’t give offense, nor can he afford to appear rude. He can’t let the fae trick him for its own purposes. He can’t let his guard down.

The fae seems to be calculating something about him as well. As it—he—comes a little closer, those eyes catch the light of the moon, and Derek can see that they aren’t so dark after all. They’re the color of honey, a strange amber glowing from their depths. 

“What happens with your normal customers?” Derek can’t help but ask. 

“Well, they’re usually goblins, for one thing,” the fae snorts. “They’re dumb as rocks, can’t do spells to save their lives, so they sometimes come out here bartering for fairy lights, the kind that last just shy of eternity. You know, for all the cave-digging. I used to see the occasional elf, but since their new king’s on another racism kick, they’re suddenly too smug to trade with a fae. But I never get humans,” he adds, studying Derek. “I thought you were all too smart to come around here.”

Derek balks at this. He wonders if the goblins actually get home in one piece, or if they live to regret accepting a fairy gift. He doesn’t like how close the fae has come, but the only reaction he’ll allow himself is to lean subtly backward.

The fae stops a few feet away, his spine straightening. “So, then. To business. What do you want, and what are you bartering?”

Derek’s mouth opens and closes. “I don’t have anything to barter.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” the fae says with a wink. 

Derek swallows. He can’t let himself fall into the potential trap of making a trade, but would it be offensive to say he doesn’t want anything at all? That he never meant to come here in the first place? He takes a gamble. “I only wanted to meet a fae.”

At this, the fae blinks. Derek is surprised to see his face brighten in surprise, and something about the curve of his smile seems suddenly genuine. “Oh. Is that right?” he hesitates for just a moment, the lines of his posture softening, and Derek has the strange impression that he’s splattered ink across the fae’s usual script. The being huffs with something like laughter. “Okay. Well then, I guess you’re meeting one now. I’m Stiles.”

“Is that your real name?” Derek asks skeptically.

Stiles snorts again. “No way. My real name is unpronounceable. No one uses it, ever.”

Derek nods slowly. It’s a clever explanation, or it would be if Derek didn't know any better. His mother once told him that names are carefully guarded secrets among the fae, that to speak a fae's name is to have power over them. The same is true for Derek, though: telling this creature his real name is to step under Stiles’s control. “I’m Daniel,” he replies, stomach twisting a little as he offers his father’s name. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Stiles hums and steps closer, settling cross-legged onto the grass at Derek’s feet. Derek barely manages to keep from recoiling. “You’re not really a human, are you, Daniel?” he asks, quirking his head to the side. “You’re something else…” his eyes flit up to the moon, then back to Derek, pausing to search him for a moment. Then he perks up. “Oh! You’re that one werewolf that moved just over the hill. The old cottage in the elm grove.”

“Yeah, a while ago. I didn’t know this was fae territory, though.”

“Oh, it’s not,” Stiles says dismissively. “I’m not with the courts; it’s just me. But what brings you out here? I thought you guys usually hold onto your territories for generations or something.”

“Too many bad memories,” Derek replies shortly. He pauses, hoping his bluntness isn’t rude, but Stiles doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, his expression grows a little softer. 

“Sorry to hear it,” he murmurs, and then adds, “So you’re alone.” Derek bristles a little, both because it’s the first time someone’s said this so casually to his face, and because he realizes how stupid it is to let on that there’s no one else here to help defend him. Before Derek can decide how to reply, though, Stiles smiles at him. “Well, it’s not so bad out here. The forest has a bad reputation, but it’s really nice once you’re used to it. Beautiful, even. If sometimes a little deadly,” he grins. “But I guess you’ve learned that by now.”

“There have been some…close calls,” Derek admits, wary.

“Anyway. I’ve never met a werewolf before,” Stiles says, bouncing in place a little. “You look much more human than I’d have thought. I couldn’t even tell you weren’t one right away. If I hadn’t overheard some of the trolls gossiping about you, I wouldn’t have guessed. You don’t seem very wolfish,” he adds dubiously.

“No, it’s—I mean, while I’m in human form, I just look human,” Derek explains, growing perplexed. “I can do a partial shift into a wolf, or a full shift.”

“Can I see?” Stiles asks. His eyes are wide and curious. 

It’s impossible to tell whether this is part of some game, some trick to have Derek transform and to trap him somehow. But if so, Derek can’t see the purpose, and he’s much more dangerous in wolf form anyway, in case the fae means to try something. He shifts fully into a wolf, feeling his limbs stretch and the fur ripple over him. As a wolf, his vision is even better, and he can make out faint tracings of moles on Stiles’s skin as the fae leans in a little for a better look. 

“Oh,” Stiles says excitedly, and to Derek’s surprise, he runs a hand through the fur on his back. It’s not unpleasant, and the touch is gentle and a little uncertain. Derek can’t remember the last time someone touched him just because they wanted to. “Are you still going to run under the moon?” Stiles asks, again trailing his fingers through Derek’s fur. It’s very distracting. “Because if so, I can keep you company for a bit. I’m faster than I look, at least in the trees,” he adds mischievously. “It might be fun to race with someone who can actually keep up.”

Derek cocks his head. Games upon games. What does this fae want from him? He can’t understand what the trick is—and maybe it’s foolish, but because he can’t see one, he decides it’s better to play along rather than risk offense. He can’t really reply, but he gives a snort that he lets Stiles interpret as he will. The fae grins wider. “Alright, then. Hmm. So if you follow Fell Creek to the north, there’s a clearing where the water forks. Do you know it? It’s not far from where you live, I don’t think.” When Derek nods, Stiles adds, “That’s where we'll finish. Are you ready?”

Derek nods again, and though he shouldn’t be surprised when the fae dashes into the trees without another word, he somehow isn’t expecting it. When he snaps out of it and bolts after Stiles, he can hear laughter ringing from somewhere farther off. 

Trick or no trick, these woods are Derek’s now, and he knows them nearly as well as he’d known the forest around his childhood home. Trees streak past him in a dark rush, and he sprints across fields and undergrowth dappled with silver light from the moon. He catches sight of Stiles every now and then, bursting through the leaves and around tree trunks—but the fae seems to appear always just ahead of Derek’s path, his footsteps nearly soundless in the night.

It’s enough to spark Derek’s sense of competition, and he leans into his sprint, hoping to pull ahead in the race. Eventually, Stiles rushes in front of him, hurrying off down a low-slung ravine that should, by all rights, be in the wrong direction. Derek runs for a few paces, then stops short. Despite his mother’s voice in his head, he turns to hurry after the fae. He’s just in time to catch a glimpse of Stiles’s pale skin disappear around a rocky shoulder, and he speeds furiously toward him. When he rounds the bend, Stiles is just ahead of him, his face turned to grin. He bursts through a wall of vines that hang from the branches above, and Derek crashes into the leaves behind him. 

When he comes through the other side, he’s somewhere he decidedly shouldn’t be—a clearing that must be nearly a quarter-mile away. It’s as if he’s suddenly been transported from one place to another. Or as if Stiles has led him through a magical portal within the leaves. “Shortcut!” the fae calls cheerfully. Derek should really stop and think about this, and he’s going to have a headache trying to process it all later. But for now, Stiles is winning and Derek leaps onward to catch up. 

There’s no competition in the end, which was pretty clear from the moment they started out. Derek puts on a burst of speed, sprinting so quickly that his paws can barely keep up, but Stiles is always a few paces ahead, sometimes more—the fae has a way of disappearing and reappearing in the deep green leaves.

At last, Stiles comes to a halt on the banks of the stream where the water divides, a wild grin upon his face. “It was a good match,” he says magnanimously as Derek arrives just behind him, shifting back into his human form.

“You swept the floor with me,” Derek replies, and he can't completely hold back his smile. His limbs still thrum with energy, his heart racing in anticipation as if the game isn't yet finished. “Maybe if you hadn’t cheated…”

Stiles laughs, and Derek’s charmed by the musical sound of it, the way his cheeks dimple just a little. The stream babbles behind him, sparks of silver moonlight reflecting onto them both. “I wasn’t sure how fast you were, or if I’d need to or not, and better safe than sorry,” the fae says mischievously. He’s so close, close enough that Derek could reach out and touch him. He’s curious to feel his skin without the barrier of wolf fur. Stiles smirks, adding, “Besides, nothing was specified about the use of magic. Did you like the trick with the shortcut? I wouldn’t show that to just anyone.”

The reminder of magic turns Derek’s skin cold. _This is a fae,_ he scolds himself. _A trickster. You can’t know what he wants, you can’t let him in, and you can’t trust him._ “It was…nice,” he says awkwardly, and then he clears his throat and takes a moment to weigh his next words. “All of this was nice. I’m glad I got to meet you. But it’s getting late, and I need to go home now.”

“Oh! Yeah, of course,” Stiles replies, shuffling away a little as the air between them becomes suddenly more formal. Then he smiles. “This _was_ nice, wasn’t it? I liked playing with you.” Derek’s mouth twists at the wording, but before he can decipher it, Stiles leans forward, pressing his lips to Derek’s cheek. When he pulls back, the skin there feels strangely cool. “Get home safe, Daniel. Have a good night.”

He retreats into the trees, disappearing into the shadows almost between one instant and the next, though Derek stares after him for some time. 

Derek takes a few deep breaths as if it might clear his head. Whatever Stiles is after, it must have something to do with the way Derek feels now, the way his cheek still prickles as if from the night chill. Derek’s falling for his tricks, just like the fool his mother had tried to warn him out of becoming. Stiles may have reached out a hand of friendship to Derek, but there’s nothing real about it—and Derek will never repeat the same mistakes he once made with Kate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you're here, thanks for reading! I've been wanting to write something that relies (loosely) on fae logic forever - it's such a fun concept. Hope the AU aspects of Derek's situation are clear but I'm down for questions if not :) I have a couple more chapters vaguely outlined, and I'll be posting as I have time to write them out. 
> 
> Leave a kudos or comment or bookmark if you enjoyed it!


	2. Even Trades

Derek has obviously been bewitched, and that’s why he doesn’t immediately pack up and leave.

There’s nothing tying him to these woods. Once upon a time, he came out here with nothing but the clothes on his back. Stumbling across the abandoned cottage he now calls home seemed like a miracle back then. He remembers his first glimpse of it: a wall of grey stone in the rough shape of a house, the roof covered in yellow-green moss, a pair of saplings growing in one corner of the foundation. He’s put a lot of work into the place since then, as he has almost nothing but spare time. He spent ages clearing out the wood-stove and repairing the windows and the stonework along the walls. He’s got a vegetable garden going with seeds bartered from the village, fenced in against animal theft, and a straw mattress for his bed (and steady work toward gathering the feathers for a proper mattress). 

His occasional work on the villagers’ farms has earned him, in addition to food and supplies, odd trinkets that dot the property. Wind chimes sing from one corner of the sloping roof, and a few potted plants line one side of the house. One of the wise women has even given him a few strands of glittering glass beads, supposedly protection against magic, to hang near the doors and windows.

As much as Derek likes the place he’s created, he has so few belongings that it would be little trouble to pack his things and find somewhere new, some other abandoned place. Little would change, except that he would be starting from scratch among a new set of trees. 

But he stays anyway. _Perhaps the fae is done with me_ , he thinks.

It’s a foolish thought. A day later, Derek is returning from town under the call of birdsong when Stiles appears again, gliding from between the trees with a smile on his face. 

“Hello, Daniel,” he says cordially. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“And—you as well,” Derek replies, flustered. He is pulling a small wooden cart behind him, and he sets the handles down to face the fae properly. Now that Stiles stands before him, Derek realizes that he’s holding something behind his back.

Stiles catches him looking, and though his smile turns a touch mischievous, he hesitates for just a beat before bringing his arm out in front of him. “The spring flowers are blooming in the high valley,” he murmurs by way of explanation, his tone oddly formal. “I thought they might be nice to have.”

The bouquet is full of wildflowers, only a few of which Derek recognizes: tufts of red valerian, sprigs of heather and yarrow, and a bit of blue foxglove. There are a few pale pink flowers as well, speckled and oddly shaped, and all of the plants are bound together with loops of thyme.

Derek blinks, then gingerly holds his hands out to accept the gift. “Tha—” Derek clears his throat, remembering suddenly that it’s a terrible idea to thank a fae. Offering thanks is the same as an admission of a debt owed, allowing the fae to decide how you ought to repay them. Derek almost stepped into the snare, and he chooses his words more carefully now. “They’re beautiful,” he amends.

Stiles’s smile grows wider. “They’re some of my favorites.” He turns in the direction Derek had been heading, the direction of his home. “Can I walk you back?”

Derek clears his throat again, a bit uncomfortable with the idea of a fae coming to the place where he lives, but it’s not as though Stiles doesn’t already know where his cottage is. “Yes, that would be nice,” he offers at last, settling the bouquet atop a bag of rice and picking up the handles of his cart.

Stiles gives the cart a sidelong look, then he falls into step beside Derek. When Derek begins to pull, he finds the cart strangely lighter, easier to pull through the worn grooves of the dirt trail. “Have you been to the high valley before?” Stiles asks offhandedly.

“I’m not sure I know where it is.”

“It’s just over the rim of the next mountain, where the trees turn mostly into dogwoods. A day’s walk from here, by human standards. Faster for you.” When Derek doesn’t answer, he adds, “Maybe I can show you the way sometime. It’s beautiful this time of year. One of my favorite places.”

Derek’s heart sinks, unsure how to get out of this trap. He needs to politely persuade the fae to leave him alone, to stop offering gifts or coming to visit or inviting him along. He needs to do it without giving offense, and he’s never been particularly good at courtesy at the best of times. “It’s a kind offer,” he finally manages, a little stiffly, “but I have too much work to do this time of year.”

He waits for Stiles’s reaction, but the fae gives nothing away. “That’s too bad,” he says slowly. “It really is nice.” As they approach Derek’s house, he glances at Derek. “You know, it’s sort of hard to tell what you’re thinking sometimes. Maybe it’s the eyebrows, but you have a…very serious way about you.” He says the last words carefully, but there’s a touch of humor in his voice, as if there’s something he’s not saying and he wants Derek to be aware of it.

Derek furrows his brow, which only makes the fae burst into laughter. “That’s a little better,” Stiles says when his chuckles subside, and Derek realizes that he’s started smiling. 

The expression quickly slips away. The cottage emerges from between the trees, a startled hare scurrying away from his potted flowers as they grow nearer. “I appreciate the company,” Derek tells Stiles as he lowers the cart handles once more, rigidly holding himself away. “But I need to unload my supplies now.”

Stiles takes the hint, clasping his hands behind his back. He makes no move to kiss Derek’s cheek again, for which Derek is both grateful and a little disappointed. “Alright. Maybe I’ll see you again soon,” he replies, and he once more sinks into the shadows between the trees.

Later, when he thinks Stiles is probably long gone, Derek takes the flowers and buries them beneath an oak tree a little ways off. Gifts from a fae are never straightforward, and they often have a way of trapping the receiver or binding them to the fae. But as he pushes dirt onto the bouquet, Derek thinks it’s a pity to destroy something so beautiful.

~*~

He sees nothing of Stiles for the rest of the day, though he realizes he has no way of knowing if the fae is watching him, silent somewhere among the elms. Derek has to strain to hear the fae’s heartbeat at the best of times, and his footsteps seem to make almost no sound against the earth.

The following day, Derek goes out hunting in the early morning. The world is at its most quiet in the hour just before sunrise, when every flutter of wings or thud of hoof-beats is loud in the silence that stretches across the green depths of the woods. He catches a squirrel and two hares, eating them in his wolf form, before coming across the trail of a deer that he can haul home to preserve for later. He tracks it through the undergrowth, following its scent on the leaves. 

Before he can get close, though, he turns his head to find Stiles stepping lightly across the grassy earth. “If it isn’t my favorite wolf,” he says, amused. He holds something in his hands, a small woven basket, and he bends a bit so Derek can see into it. There’s a collection of strange berries within, some of them dark red, others black and dripping with juice, others bursting with pink flecks. “I thought you might like breakfast. You usually work in the village today, don’t you?”

Food. Derek isn’t particularly hungry anymore, but there’s something about the fragrant smell that tempts him. Even so, he knows he can’t let a single berry pass his lips: food offered by a fae is the worst trick of all. Some of the stories his mother and Uncle Peter told him as a child ended with people eating a fae’s offerings, only to find themselves wasting away to the point of death, unable to ever find a food so rich again. Others were bound to the realm of the fae after eating their food, unable to return to the mortal realm ever again. Derek stares at the gift, and then he quickly shifts to his human form. Stiles only straightens, unbothered. 

“That’s very kind of you,” Derek tells him. “But I’m on the hunt at the moment, so it would be better to keep my hands free.” He realizes this would essentially mean refusing Stiles’s gift, and he quickly clears his throat to add more, but Stiles only tilts his head.

“You’re hunting? What for?” He looks into the trees, toward the trail Derek had been following. Then he snorts. “Oh, you weren’t going to catch him. He’s a friend.”

“A friend?” Derek asks, suddenly a little alarmed that he might have found and eaten some of Stiles’s other “friends.”

Stiles nods. “He seems like a normal stag, but he’s one of the guardians of the western ridge. He probably would have led you in circles for a while. He can be kind of a dick sometimes,” he adds fondly.

Derek stares into the trees. “I see.” He looks down at the berries. “Anyway, I’ve actually just eaten.”

“Oh.” Stiles frowns a little. He actually looks vaguely upset for a second, as if he’s trying to hide his disappointment that Derek won’t play along with the game. “But they’re fresh. It’s best to eat them now. And won’t you need your strength for your work?” 

Derek finds himself irritated that Stiles somehow knows which days he likes to work in the village. “If you don’t mind, I’ll save them for after I work,” he lies. “As a treat.”

The wording isn’t perfect—probably Derek shouldn’t have qualified it by asking if Stiles minds, because he isn’t sure what he’ll say if Stiles does mind—but it puts a smile back on Stiles’s face regardless. “I guess that’s almost as good,” he says, handing the berries over.

The fae offers a few more small pleasantries and then retreats into the trees again. Derek carries the basket of berries partway home, listening for sounds of footsteps and trying to sense whether or not the fae is really gone. There’s no way to tell, and now seems as good a time as any to tip the basket over into the nearest stream, watching the berries bob and float in the current and around the bend.

~*~

There’s a distant worry that Stiles might realize his trick hasn’t worked, that Derek can still eat food from the mortal realm or that he isn’t following Stiles into the world of the fae. 

In the end, though, it doesn’t seem to matter. Whatever spell Stiles has crafted is working on Derek anyway. He can feel the magic in his veins, the way he’s drawn to Stiles whenever he appears, like a flower twisting in the sun. 

Over the next few days, Stiles occasionally pops up around Derek’s home. As Derek works to repair the crumbling chimney, Stiles perches on the roof ridge, chattering animatedly beside him. Or else Derek is weeding the garden, and Stiles is there as well, helping to pull cutworms from the leaves of his tomatoes. Or else Derek is sitting under the stars before bed, and Stiles lies in the grass beside him to keep him company.

Now that Derek has seen him enough to feel a little less stiff in his presence, he finds that the fae has a truly bizarre tendency to let his conversations meander from one topic to another without explaining the relevant thread between them. He talks about the slow progress of the beaver dams upstream, jumping to the stories of the village his mother had told him in childhood. He has been stalking some of the elves recently, curious about their new king, and he discusses at length the methods he uses to conceal himself from them. 

At first, Derek worries that Stiles might think he’s disinterested and grow offended, because Derek doesn’t respond to these stories in kind. He’s always been quiet, and nothing about the fae’s presence has changed that. Still, he finds that when he isn’t careful, he genuinely likes listening to Stiles babble. He has to try very hard not to let himself get drawn into the wild tales, not to become too enthralled. Stiles talks and talks as though his words are a flood he can’t control.

“Don’t you have someone else to tell these stories to?” Derek asks him one afternoon, stepping outside of his house to find Stiles waiting for him in the grass.

He doesn’t mean for it to come out as an accusation, but Stiles shrinks back a little all the same. “I don’t mean to bother you,” he replies.

Derek shakes his head quickly, already regretting his words, even though Stiles shows no sign of ire. This is another reason why he tries to stay quiet around Stiles: he’s always putting his foot in his mouth. “You aren’t,” he insists, attempting to be casual as he wanders around the side of the house to grab his axe. “It’s just that I imagine there are better people for you to talk to than a lone werewolf in the middle of nowhere.”

Stiles trails behind him. “But you’re my favorite lone werewolf,” he teases. “Who else would I talk to?”

Derek grunts. He’s gathered a few broken logs against the back of the house, ready to be cut into firewood, and he pulls a round onto a tree stump. “Alright, then. Tell me more about the supposed wood-elf uprising. Have you been back?”

“Oh, the court gossip is getting interesting,” Stiles laughs, settling onto one of the logs. As Derek works, he launches into a story that involves him hiding in a well to hear some of the elves’ lower nobility insulting the king’s new laws. It’s a good distraction from the burn of his muscles, from the repetitive crunch of the axe. The day is warm, the spring nearly bleeding into summer, and Derek eventually pauses to pull his tunic over his head.

Stiles squawks behind him, his story stuttering to a halt. Derek turns to find the fae looking carefully away. His cheeks are a little flushed—not quite pink, though, but sort of a pale purple. Before Derek can wonder at this, Stiles clears his throat. “Um, I didn’t know you had a tattoo.”

Derek nods slowly, then cocks his head. “It’s an important symbol in my family. An important symbol for werewolves in general,” he adds.

“The triskelion,” Stiles murmurs, and now that he’s gotten over his initial surprise he seems more intrigued, peering at Derek’s back. He stands and moves closer.

Derek shifts, and though he should probably be moving away, should prevent this creature from stepping behind him at all, he finds himself turning so that Stiles can see it more easily. “It symbolizes the link between werewolves: alpha, beta, omega. It shows the way we’re all connected,” Derek adds. Briefly, he wonders how true this is. As an omega, is he still somehow linked to others of his kind? Is he any less alone now—or is that only wishful thinking?

Stiles touches his back, and Derek stiffens. His skin is cooler than Derek would have expected, but not unpleasant. “For the fae, it’s something different,” he says quietly, and with one finger he slowly traces each spiral in turn. “Creation,” he murmurs, trailing along the top spiral under his neck. “Preservation.” He follows the curve along Derek’s shoulder blade. “And destruction,” he adds, moving along the last line.

Derek shivers, and he’s not sure it’s just because of Stiles’s touch. 

“It’s—it sounds a little pretentious,” Stiles adds with a laugh, stepping away. “But it’s actually pretty basic. It’s mostly about the rules for how we maintain the forests we guard. The different cycles that the land and water and plants follow. Everything grows and dies, grows and dies.”

Not knowing what to say to this, Derek nods stiffly and moves back into his stance to begin cutting. Stiles watches him for a moment, then retreats back to his seat. After a few minutes, he continues his story, though his tone is a little more subdued. It’s as if there’s something in the air between them, thick and unspoken, and Derek isn’t sure where it will lead.

Some time later, he realizes that Stiles has trailed off. The fae stares down into the grass, the afternoon sun bathing his hair and skin almost gold. As he brings his axe up, Derek realizes that Stiles is absently playing with the plants at his feet, pulling curling tendrils up from the ground and weaving little white flowers into swirling patterns. There’s something so casual about it, as if this comes as easily to him as a human child might shred grass between their fingers or braid a chain of daisies. 

It’s the first time Stiles has shown his magic so openly, and though Derek hasn’t been able to forget that Stiles is magic—how could he?—the shock of seeing the changes happen before his eyes makes Derek stumble just a fraction. The head of the axe comes down hard at the wrong angle, and though it splits the wood before him, he hears a sharp crack that makes him wince. 

When he pulls the tool up, the metal head drops onto the stump, separated from its handle. He swears.

Stiles looks up. “Oh,” he says, “Let me—” But without elaborating, he takes to his feet, picking the up the axe head and cradling it gently in one hand. “Can I have that?” he asks, gesturing for Derek to give him the handle. Warily, Derek hands it to him, and Stiles presses the wood back into the metal. In a matter of seconds, the wood works its way over the metal as if it is once again a living thing, weaving little branches up and over the axe head to tug it flush against the top of the handle. When the movement stops a moment later, it looks as if the handle has simply rooted around the metal, holding it snugly in place. 

Stiles holds the axe out to him, beaming.

Derek stares. Something in his expression must finally reach Stiles, because his smile falters and he lowers the axe. “Is it okay?” he asks, peering doubtfully down at the tool in his hands. “Did I do it wrong? Or…” he hesitates, scrutinizing Derek’s face.

The reminder of his magic is almost too much for Derek to bear. The wolf inside him has its hackles raised, a snarl curling around its teeth, and it’s all Derek can do to pull his defenses back. At the same time, he has to be polite—and he also has to be wary of what is now, essentially, another gift. He opens his mouth once, twice. “No, it’s just…” but he trails off, unable to find the words.

Stiles swallows. When Derek makes no move to take the axe, he sets it gingerly down on the stump beside them. “Alright,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.” With that, he slinks away into the glow of the afternoon, leaving Derek to stare down at the gift he’s left behind.

~*~

Little things have been disappearing from Derek’s house for quite some time, but takes some time for him to realize he isn’t simply misplacing them.

A while ago, he lost the red ribbon he often uses to mark his place in his books. A little pot of honey has gone missing from his cupboard, and he’s lost a loaf of rosemary bread that he left to cool on the windowsill, though he reminds himself that the theft could easily have been the fault of an animal. A coin or two has disappeared, though Derek half-hopes he’ll somehow find them in the pocket of his coat or at the bottom of the cart, both places he’s already looked. 

But lately, the things that disappear are more difficult to explain away. The protective glass beads outside his kitchen window have gone, as have the silver wind chimes one of the villagers gifted him. 

The culprit could be any number of things, and it’s hard to rule out common nuisances like brownies or pixies, especially this deep in the woods. But when Stiles comes back a few days later, as determinedly cheerful as ever, Derek wonders if he’s behind the vanishing objects. There’s no question he can think to ask that won’t sound like an accusation, so Derek just goes back to listening as he wonders again how to extricate himself from Stiles’s grip completely.

And then comes the final straw. Within the drawer beside Derek’s bed, he keeps a small wooden box of things from his past that he still holds dear: a scrap of painting his younger brother made when they were little, a twisted bit of metal in the shape of an H that once hung over the front door of his old home, and his mother’s sapphire ring. Things that survived the fire. Things that belong to him, and him alone.

The ring is gone one day when he looks, and that’s when he decides that whatever is happening with Stiles has gone much too far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm trying to write this with kind of medieval-y tones, which is mostly going fine... Except then you've got Stiles who refuses to cooperate and says stuff like "he can be kind of a dick" 🤷
> 
> Thanks so much for the encouragement and kudos so far! You guys are the best :)


	3. Strong as Iron

Derek has been avoiding the grove of trees where he first met Stiles, not wanting to give the fae the idea that Derek is actively seeking him out. But today, he needs to talk to Stiles, and it’s the only place Derek knows where he might be.

He doesn’t wait long. Only a few minutes after he settles onto the fallen log to wait, Stiles comes into view. Today a thin leather bag hangs off one shoulder, and as he approaches Derek can see that it’s full of herbs and mushrooms. “Fancy meeting you here, Daniel,” Stiles says, looking pleased. “For a second, I thought I was going to have to make nice with another goblin. And if I have to explain again why a skinned river salamander isn’t an even trade for a fairy light, I think I might throw up.”

“Have you been taking my things?” Derek demands.

Stiles pauses, looking taken aback by the steel in his tone. After a beat in which he shuffles uncertainly from foot to foot, giving Derek all the answer he needs, he finally murmurs, “Yes. But I’ve been leaving things, too. You’ve taken all my gifts.”

“That doesn’t mean you can just take anything you like,” Derek snaps, but then he bites his tongue. So far, Stiles has shown none of the markers of the typical violent fae temper, but that doesn’t mean Derek can allow himself to grow senselessly rude. He’s already endangering himself enough as it is. Presently, Stiles has deflated a little, fidgeting with the strap of his bag, and Derek sighs. “I’m alone because most of my pack burned in a fire,” he says quietly. “A fire that destroyed my house and almost everything in it. I have nearly nothing left to remind me of my family, and my mother’s ring is one of the few things I saved.” He hesitates, then asks, “Can I please have it back?”

The opening is sloppy, and Stiles might easily require something in trade, as is typical in fae culture. But he only nods, his eyes growing wide. “Of course you can. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” He fishes a hand into his pocket and draws out the ring. 

Derek takes it with great care, inspecting it to find it undamaged. Or at least no more damaged than usual: there's still one crooked prong, and he's never been able to clean away the soot caught beneath the setting. But at the very least, it's back in his hands now. He catches himself before he can offer his thanks, because that’s something you should never say to a fae—and because this one doesn’t deserve it.

“It’s very well made,” Stiles offers quietly. “I like the way the gem shines.”

“My mother always had a good eye for things like that,” Derek returns, considering the sapphire that glints in his palm. He looks back up at Stiles, emboldened by his success. “Please, just—don’t take my things without asking.”

Stiles stares back, obviously perplexed, but he nods all the same. 

~*~

Thankfully, the conversation seems to do the trick, because things stop disappearing from Derek’s house.

Even so, the gifts don’t stop. They do get smaller, though, as if the giver himself is less certain. And they always come quietly, snuck into odd places in Derek’s life without so much as a word. A glittering red stone, its surface smooth and polished as glass, rests on one corner of Derek’s cart when he goes to wheel it out one afternoon. There are always little flowers left here and there, well positioned to catch his eye. And then one morning, Derek wakes to find something toothy grinning at him from outside his bedroom window. He jumps to his feet, but the thing turns out to be only a skeleton, sun-bleached and long and limbless—a snake, or maybe an eel.

Throwing the bones into the nearby stream, Derek’s not sure if these gifts should feel like threats. Not for the last time, he wishes he could speak his mind around Stiles, could ask the questions he wants to ask.

Stiles doesn’t make them seem like threats, though. He’s made himself scarce recently, and when he does appear he always holds himself a little apart from Derek, preserving the space between them. Derek’s request that Stiles stop taking his things appears to have thrown the fae a little off-balance, as if he’s not so sure of himself anymore. Even so, Stiles seems determined to get things back to normal between them.

Though the fae never crosses the stone wall bordering the village, he often accompanies Derek there or back home, chattering all the way. He seems to enjoy learning what Derek does while he’s there, what he barters for, what he offers in return. Items and bargains seem to fascinate him, as do the simple details of village life. And he’s always doing little favors for Derek, things he doesn’t even bother to mention—spelling the dampness from Derek’s leather cloak one foggy evening, for example. Derek’s pretty sure he’s also magically reinforced the wheels of his cart, because he hasn’t needed to maintain them at all recently. 

He doesn’t ask for anything in return, but nothing is given for free. Maybe there’s more to it. Maybe there’s something Stiles expects. 

It doesn’t take long for Derek to find out what it is.

The werewolf heads toward the village one day after an afternoon storm, Stiles an oddly quiet presence by his side. The earth is soft underfoot, and the smell of rain still hangs thick in the air. Derek shakes the occasional water droplet, falling from the canopy overhead, out of his face and eyes. Eventually, Stiles takes note of this, his lips quirking as he glances up at the branches, and Derek’s eyes remain clear for the rest of the trip.

As usual, they slow to a stop just outside of the town, the low wall a bit farther off through the trees. This is where Stiles usually offers a cheery goodbye, but today he’s fidgeting anxiously, unable to keep still.

“What is it?” Derek asks, studying him warily.

Stiles’s face turns that strange shade of lavender. “Nothing,” he says quickly, and his smile is uncharacteristically shy. Alarm bells are going off in Derek’s head, but he’s not sure why or what to do about it. “I just wanted to say that I really like spending time with you. That I really like you. And I know I can be…a little much. But it’s nice that you let me hang around anyway,” he adds, laughing. “And—there’s something else I wanted to give you.”

He makes no move to pull anything from his pockets, just meets Derek’s gaze with those deep honey-colored eyes. And then he leans in closer before Derek can protest—not that he's sure he would have—to kiss Derek’s cheek. Again his lips are cool, or maybe it’s just the contrast with the warm spring air. He pulls back a little, hesitates, and then presses his mouth to Derek’s. 

Derek can only blame instinct for the way he leans into the kiss without so much as a thought, the way his mind rushes to examine the way Stiles’s soft lips move against his own, the sweet taste of him on Derek’s tongue. His eyes close of their own accord, and though he keeps one hand behind him to steady the cart, his other arm slowly wraps around Stiles’s back to pull him in closer. And then a thought occurs to him, the idea that this might not be instinct but _magic_.

He pulls away at once, gasping for air. Stiles looks stunned for a moment, as though he himself is surprised at how events have unfolded, and then he smiles. One hand has fisted itself in Derek’s tunic, and the fae clings to him like a lifeline. Then, realizing he’s doing so, he immediately lets go. His face is still flushed the same odd shade. 

“I, um,” Stiles says awkwardly. “I guess I’ll let you go. To do your…village stuff.” He can’t seem to stop smiling. “See you later?”

“Yeah,” Derek replies, swallowing, and he turns his back on Stiles to head into the village alone.

~*~

Derek wonders what kind of magic a fae can weave with a kiss.

The problem is that Derek’s let himself get in too deep. The magic has taken hold of him, and he must be playing into whatever trick Stiles has planned. Stiles is winning. Stiles has _won_.

He worries over this as he scrambles atop the fletcher’s roof, patching areas that have been damaged in the recent storm. The work goes twice as fast for Derek, who can lift things faster and move more quickly than a normal human, and the man offers him fresh apple cider as he works. But Derek’s mind is elsewhere, at least until later when he heads to the blacksmith’s for a few extra nails. 

For the first time he really studies the odd sigils hanging in the shop window, perhaps another language or perhaps with some strange meaning of their own. They remind Derek of his first days talking to the villagers, the way they’d warned him of beings in the forest and offered protections for him—though he’d only accepted the glass beads that once hung in his window. There had been other options, now that he thinks about it. Things wrought in metal.

It reminds Derek, suddenly, of the way that Stiles never crosses the border into the village. As if something is keeping him from coming within.

“What are those?” he asks the blacksmith, a clean-shaven man with callused hands that are surprisingly dexterous for their size.

The man glances up, then turns back to rummage around in a set of drawers for the nails Derek requested. “Iron,” he grunts. “Best protection against magical creatures of almost any sort—fae, goblins, brownies.” He frowns thoughtfully. “Doesn’t work against elves, though, so far as I’m aware. Or forest-demons.”

Derek hesitates. “Can it be anything iron, or only things like those, with those symbols?”

“It’s the metal itself,” the man explains. “Nullifies any magic in the air around it. And if the wrong creature touches it, it burns them. You’ll find lots of iron around here,” he adds. “In windows, above doors. There’s even some iron mixed into the mortar of the wall around town.”

Derek nods thoughtfully. “Is there anything more…portable?” he wonders aloud, then clarifies. “Anything I could wear?”

The blacksmith glances up at him. “Magical infestation?” he guesses.

“Fae,” Derek replies.

The man’s eyebrows climb, and he swears low under his breath. “You’re being careful, lad? Those fae, they’re tricksters in the worst way. Town’s had a few of its own spirited away in the past, or come out of the woods—well, wrong. The mayor’s wife still swears her child is a changeling, and it’s been almost a decade.”

“I’m…working on it,” Derek says, frowning. “Do you have anything I can try?” Grunting again, the blacksmith heads to the back of the shop. He returns with a drawer full of rings and necklaces, some of them only partially finished and others with gaps where a stone might go. Derek finds one glimmering pendant with a single swirled loop that reminds him a bit of the triskelion, and he pulls it out. “What do I owe you?” he asks.

“For this? Nothing,” the man returns, clapping Derek on the shoulder. “You’ve done well by us, and it’s best for everyone if we don’t lose you to the forest.” He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “If you’re worried, I’m sure they’d make room for you at the inn for a while.”

Derek shakes his head. “Thanks, but the forest is home. I won’t be chased out of it.”

The blacksmith nods, gathering the nails, but Derek can’t help but notice the furtive, disquieted looks the man sends his way as he heads out of the shop.

~*~

When Derek slips the iron necklace over his head, he imagines that he can almost feel any residual magic sweeping away from him. He’s safe now, safe from spellwork, at least—although Stiles could certainly wreak havoc in his home or garden if he so chose. But at the very least, it means that Derek doesn’t have to stumble over his words, to dance in circles around the fae. Stiles can’t drag him to the fae realm or enchant him with gifts or cast spells to warp his thoughts. 

Now, he can finally ask Stiles to leave him alone without repercussions.

The memory of the fae’s kiss haunts Derek all the way back to his cottage. He thinks about Stiles’s scattered gifts, or the way he’s filled Derek’s days with endless babble.

 _There are different kinds of enchantments_ , he reminds himself determinedly. _And none of them are things you can afford to suffer under._

Unwilling to wait for Stiles to appear, Derek unpacks his new supplies and heads out to the fairy ring. This time, though, it seems to take Stiles ages to show—maybe because Derek is so anxious to get this over with. The sun sinks slowly under the canopy of trees, trailing long shadows behind it, and the woods come alive with the evening song of the crickets and frogs. Sun-warmed and sleepy from the day’s work, Derek sits on the grass to rest his head against the log. Though he doesn’t mean to, he falls into a doze, his head settling against the wood.

When he wakes, it’s because something heavy has come to rest in his lap. He opens his eyes blearily in the near-darkness, then startles awake at the sight of Stiles’s face just inches from his own. “Hello neighbor,” Stiles says, beaming, and then he leans in to capture Derek’s mouth in a kiss. 

Again, Derek’s body reacts on its own, his eyes fluttering closed and his mouth opening of its own accord. Stiles sweeps his tongue inside once, twice, and a blissfully cool rush spreads into Derek. It seems to make him forget himself, and he leans in, sucking on Stiles’s lower lip. Stiles lets out a little sound of surprise, one hand looping around Derek’s back as the other comes up to twine gentle fingers into his hair, his palm resting against the back of Derek’s neck.

The necklace. Derek jerks back, uncertain, but without even looking down he can feel that it’s right where he left it, settled under his tunic and just above his heart. Is it working?

Stiles is looking patently pleased with himself, though he quickly tones down his smile. “Um, how was your outing?” he asks, sounding a little breathless.

“It was—fine,” Derek replies, still confused. He swallows, his thoughts racing. The iron should protect him, but there’s one more thing he really should know if he’s going to overcome this. If Stiles still thinks he’s under a spell, he’s bound to be more trusting, and maybe he’ll give away the one thing Derek knows he can really use against him. Derek settles his hands on Stiles’s arms, feeling the skin turn to gooseflesh beneath his touch. “Actually, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Now that, uh…” he trails off, briefly raising his hand to gesture vaguely between them.

“Sure,” Stiles replies in amusement, shifting in Derek’s lap.

Derek clears his throat, trying to be casual about it. “When we first met, you mentioned your real name, something unpronounceable.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Will you tell me what it is?”

Stiles snorts. “Oh my god. That’s third-date material. At least. It’s embarrassing.”

“Not to me. I really want to know.”

“Ugh. Why?” he shakes his head, something like genuine chagrin spilling onto his face. “Fine, it’s…don’t laugh, okay? It’s my grandfather’s name—I didn’t pick it.” He rolls his eyes, though he’s still smiling. “Mieczyslaw.”

A thrill of triumph runs through Derek. “Mieczyslaw,” he repeats, careful of the pronunciation.

“Yes,” Stiles says warily. When Derek doesn’t immediately reply, he quirks his head. His hand combs through the hair at the nape of Derek's neck again, soothing and distracting at once. “Well, you’re not laughing, so I guess that’s something at least.”

“Mieczyslaw,” Derek says slowly, choosing his words with great care, even as the triumph dissolves into a sinking feeling in his chest, “I command you to leave me alone, and never to harm or use magic on me ever again.”

Stiles’s hand stills. He frowns. “Wait, what?”

Derek probably should have made sure he knew how this worked before trying it. “Mieczyslaw, by your true name, I command you to—”

“No, no—I heard you the first time,” Stiles snaps, slowly leaning backward. “Are you…is this some kind of joke?” He studies Derek’s face, and whatever he sees there makes his frown deepen. “I thought all those stupid stories died out a century ago. Are people still gossiping about them? No one gives a shit about anyone’s true name…” His breath catches in his throat. Derek realizes he’s looking at the chain that disappears into his tunic, and before he can so much as move, Stiles has dug the necklace from behind the fabric. It glints in the moonlight, looking almost silver in his palm—with no sign of burning him. “Iron?” Stiles cries, throwing the pendant back against Derek’s chest. “Are you serious?”

He jerks to his feet, staring at Derek as if he’s never seen him before in his life. “You…you went into town today. And got an iron necklace. To defend yourself. Against _me_. Why?” Derek doesn’t answer, but Stiles is clever enough to work it out for himself, and the werewolf can see the wheels turning. “You think I’m doing something to you. You actually believe all those stupid stories. And…and…you haven’t accepted my gifts, either, not really,” Stiles realizes, his eyes growing wide. “I couldn’t figure out why all my gifts have been disappearing from your house. I thought maybe you were saving them somewhere, but you’ve just…been _tossing_ them?”

The way he phrases it makes it seem like it isn’t really a question, but Derek replies anyway. “Gifts from a fae are always traps,” he protests slowly, getting to his feet as well. “Everyone knows that. I—I threw most of them into the stream.”

“Yes, well, does ‘everyone’ know that half those dumb stories are just tall tales? Legends?” Stiles retorts, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “I’m pretty sure the elves are still spreading them around to human villages just out of pure spite at this point.”

“But—” Derek begins, flustered, “But they use iron in the village. To keep you out of it. At least some of the stories are true, aren’t they?”

“I stay out of the village because they hate me there,” Stiles snarls. “Everything that goes wrong in that place is blamed on the forest, like they can’t take responsibility for their own problems or illness or hard fucking luck. So I leave them alone, and they leave me alone.” 

Derek shakes his head, almost too blindsided to move. All of this feels somehow like a final trick. And yet the fae’s faint heartbeat hasn’t stuttered once. But if the stories, all of the rules and etiquette his mother taught him—if those are all just stories, then what’s been happening here? That would mean that Stiles has been…what, actually courting him? That the fae follows Derek not to trick him, but out of a genuine wish to stay by his side? That his gifts, odd as some of them have been, are actual attempts to share something…heartfelt?

The hesitant gazes, the mischievous grins, the soft kisses—is it actually possible that none of those things have been designed as traps? Stiles may be a fae, Derek realizes as he stares, but maybe he hasn’t actually been trying to trick Derek at all.

“You…you wouldn’t have even told me your real name, would you?” Stiles realizes suddenly, his voice cracking. “Is your name really Daniel?”

“N-no,” Derek says lamely. His thoughts are coming too slow. He feels half-stunned by what Stiles has said, but not as stunned as Stiles himself appears. The fae looks stricken in the pale light of the half-moon, his eyes shining before he blinks once, hard. 

Derek can see the moment when his temper flares, when the long-expected ire rises to the surface. Stiles grits his teeth, his arms tensing, and the air seems to grow thicker, heated with a magic as dense as the static electricity that stiffens Derek’s fur just before a thunderstorm. Then, the anger fades just as fast as it came. “I can’t believe I thought…” Stiles begins, his voice small, and then he cuts himself off and shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. Stay out of my circle and I won’t bother you again.” Without another word, without so much as a second glance in Derek’s direction, Stiles turns and vanishes into the trees.

It happens too fast for Derek to protest, too fast for him to call Stiles back. Too fast for him to decide if he wants to at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, I love misunderstandings as a trope...but they aren't always fun places to end :(
> 
> Gonna try to get the last part out asap!


	4. Myths and Legends

For the first time in nearly a month, Derek finds himself well and truly alone. 

It’s funny how quickly he’s grown used to having Stiles around, or at least to seeing little flowers or stones suggesting his recent presence. There’s no one to keep Derek company as he sits outside to mend his worn clothes, or to chatter ceaselessly as he fetches water from the stream. And as the afternoon stretches on, Derek finds himself glancing into the trees in the faint hope that Stiles will step out from behind one of them. 

The forest remains quiet.

He spends much of the evening deep in thought, staring out of his open window as his lantern burns low and moths begin fluttering over his skin. Back when he first encountered Stiles, the fae seemed pleased that Derek wanted to meet him. Or maybe pleased to be considered at all. _You’re alone_ , Stiles observed, and Derek had taken it as a potential threat, worried that Stiles might try to overpower a lone wolf in the woods.

But perhaps the truth is simpler. Perhaps it’s just that Stiles recognized something familiar in Derek. Perhaps it's just that he understands what it truly means to be alone. After all, he's spent a lot of time out here with Derek if he has other business to attend to, other friends to meet, as Derek might have expected of a fae. But Stiles, by his own admission, isn't with the fae courts. And as much time as he seems to spend in these woods, it's not a stretch to imagine that his visits to the fae realm are infrequent at best.

Stiles is just as alone as Derek, maybe—and Derek has just cast aside his company in the worst way possible. He's been so hell-bent on making sure he won’t fall for Stiles’s magic, so determined never to let anyone fool him into falling in love with another monster. He’s been watching out for the knife behind Stiles’s back, but nothing has come. Instead, there’s only Stiles, reaching out to Derek from a place of genuine interest. 

It may not have been intentional, but for all his wariness, _Derek_ is the one who’s played the trick in the end.

What’s more, the fact that there’s no magic spell means that all of Derek’s fondness for Stiles, the strange mixture of bemusement and affection that swirls to the surface when the fae is near—that’s not some foreign, manipulated emotion. That's real. That’s _Derek’s_. And now he has to decide what to do with it.

The enormity of this is frightening. Derek has half a mind to crawl into bed and not come out, at least until he's managed to convince himself that this isn't worth it, that _he_ isn't worth it. Especially if it means enduring the pain and awkwardness of the conversation that he should probably have with Stiles. And the agony of talking about his past. But the thought of Stiles hurting, alone, because of what Derek's done to him is even worse. And Derek may be an idiot, but his mother at the very least taught him how to apologize when he’s wronged someone.

And when to chase after things he wants.

As he ponders all of this, he realizes that there’s something else Stiles has let slip, something small. And not in their first meeting but in their last. _Half of those stories are just legends,_ he’d snapped, eyes flashing. But that means, Derek decides, that maybe _some_ of the stories are true.

Stiles once mentioned the existence of the courts, at least, and those are always part of the legends. And that mushroom circle, while not a mythical portal to the fae realm as far as Derek knows, _is_ a sort of meeting place. And Stiles _is_ intrigued by the concepts of gifts and trades and bartering. He’s left countless trinkets for Derek over the past weeks, loves hearing what bargains Derek has found in the village, and hadn’t initially understood that accepting a gift doesn’t give you the right to claim one of your own.

Derek considers the types of things Stiles has left him, and the types of things he’s taken from the house, and thinks, _Maybe I can make this work._

~*~

There’s only one place Derek knows Stiles frequents with any regularity, so he again spends several hours at the fairy ring the next morning before deciding that Stiles must be busy elsewhere. Or else, Derek worries with a sinking feeling, Stiles must be actively avoiding him. Either way, there's nothing to do but try what little he can. On the old log, he sets down two simple, likely very dull offerings—a striated river stone that glitters silver in the light and an old hand mirror, carefully polished—and heads home.

To his relief, the gifts are gone when he checks the following day, though there’s still no sign of Stiles. Derek paces the clearing for a while, and then he sets some pressed flowers onto the log and retreats into the trees once more. Stiles never shows, and Derek goes home with both desperation and hope warring in his heart.

Over the next few days, Derek makes it a point to pass by the fairy ring often, leaving additional gifts. Some are intentionally sought out, like the string of beads he bought in the village, since Stiles had liked (and stolen) the ones that used to be strung above Derek's window. Others are simply impulsive things that make Derek think of Stiles: sprigs of flowering sage from the stream bed, or a speckled and unhatched robin’s egg he finds on the ground. Stumbling upon a fallen butterfly on one of his moonlit hunts, Derek shifts to his human form to carefully carry the lifeless, glittering thing to the clearing, remembering the weird dead creature Stiles once set out on his window pane. 

There's never any sign of the fae. For all Derek knows, Stiles may simply be cleaning the unwanted goods from his space, dumping all of the offerings into the stream. Derek would deserve that.

But somehow, he can't stop himself from trying.

~*~

He forgets how silent Stiles can be until one evening a little over a week later: Derek steps over the edge of the circle and is surprised to find the fae already there, staring at him from the shadows that pool beneath the trees. Derek's stomach leaps into his throat.

There’s something off about Stiles, though. After a beat, Derek realizes that his posture is oddly stiff, as formal as it had been that first day. “So what’s your game now?” Stiles asks, stepping lightly through the flowers and over the edge of the ring. His gaze is cool, as if Derek is just another mark, as if he's calculating how much to charge when they finally haggle on a deal. “I don’t get it.”

Derek’s been hoping and planning for this moment for days, and his words spill out in a rush before he can really think about them. “My real name is Derek,” he blurts at once, and this makes Stiles go still. “And—I’m an idiot.” This doesn’t earn him the smile he’s been hoping for, but the fae doesn’t turn away, which he counts as a small victory. “You were right about me. I thought all fae are like they're described in the legends, in all those stories. And when I met you, I was sure you were the same. I thought you were trying to find a way to trick me into something.”

Stiles scoffs in disbelief. “For the first few days, sure. I’ll buy it. But didn’t you _get to know me?_ Didn’t you see that I’m not…?” he makes a vague, frustrated gesture as if he can’t find the right words.

“If I didn’t believe the stories, I might have realized that those myths weren’t like you at all. Not once I spent time with you. But I thought…” he trails off and runs a hand through his hair. “I thought I was being bewitched,” he adds gruffly, and before Stiles’s incredulous expression can shift into snarling, Derek hurries on. “I’ve been tricked before, and by a human. A woman without even a hint of magic. Her lies stole everything from me. She made me believe that she loved me, and I thought I loved her in return. But all of it was a trap, a way for her to hunt and kill my family. She’s the reason my home burned, the reason I came here. She burned my house down with my pack inside of it.”

Stiles looks less as though he's waiting for the next opportunity to let his temper spark back to life, and more like he isn't sure he's heard correctly. Confusion slowly seeps into his features. “She burned…” he shakes his head. “I don’t get it.”

Derek understands. He's never been able to comprehend it either, to wrap his mind around the true malice Kate once showed him, the impulse to raze an entire family. He can see why Stiles, why _anyone,_ would struggle as well. “She was a werewolf hunter, or—well, she despised magic of any kind, I guess, but werewolves especially. But I didn’t know that at the time. She’d been planning to kill us for months, trying to find a way to win our trust. As it turned out, she didn’t have to win all of our trust,” Derek adds bitterly. “Only mine.”

Stiles is looking at him in horror now. “You—she really...you’re serious.”

“I am. I survived, as did my uncle and two of my sisters, but the others are gone. Gone in the fire.”

“Morgan's blade," Stiles swears, shaking his head fiercely. "And…then where are your uncle and sisters now?”

“Not far from where our home once stood. They’re rebuilding things, starting a new pack. Before I left, my sister had met a new mate. She was expecting a cub. But…” 

“But you didn’t think you had a place there anymore,” Stiles guesses, staring. “You still don't. So you left.”

“That was a little over two years ago,” Derek confirms. He shifts in place. “You can see why I might have an easier time believing someone’s trying to trick me than that they actually feel something for me. And on top of that, you have magic that I thought—especially according to the stories—that I thought seemed _designed_ to trick me. I think…I think that as long as I believed the old stories were true, I wouldn’t have to decide whether or not I could trust you. It was easier to believe, to _know_ you were trying to trap me. Because then I didn’t have to wonder or worry or decide for myself what to do about it. The only option was to refuse, and to protect myself.”

Stiles looks away, the corners of his mouth still twisting down.

“That doesn’t mean what I did was—I’m not trying to sweep away the fact that I did something that hurt you,” Derek adds in a rush. “I’m only trying to explain. Like I said before, I’m an idiot. And I’m really sorry.”

The fae exhales slowly. He looks back up at Derek for a few long moments, still guarded, and it’s long enough that the werewolf starts to worry. “Alright,” Stiles says at last, the steel slipping from his gaze little by little. “I get it. You thought I was a literal psychopath, so you played along because you had to. It was…self-defense, or something. So I guess I can’t really blame you.” At last he offers a crooked smile. "It's okay, I guess. _We're_ okay." The forgiveness is there, of that much Derek is certain. And if he leaves things alone, they can go for friendship, maybe. Companionship on both sides, free from Derek's wariness. But that isn't what Derek wants, not anymore. 

“No, Stiles,” Derek replies gently, his neck and chest feeling a little too warm. “I’m here because—the gifts I left, they’re not apologies. Or not _just_ apologies, anyway.” When Stiles continues staring, he adds, “Sorry, I'm not explaining this well. What I mean is, I wasn’t just playing along. I thought you were tricking me into liking you, but the truth is that I just _did_. All on my own.”

Stiles's quirks bemusedly to one side, but Derek can pinpoint the precise moment when the fae catches his meaning: his face flushes in its typical endearing shade. The strangely lavender hue even creeps down his neck. “You did? You…do?” His tone is softer than usual. Hopeful.

“You’re not ‘a little much,’” Derek tells him quietly. “I think you’ve been just what I needed.”

The tension seems to sag out of Stiles’s shoulders, the last traces of his unusual formality dissipating into the air. “Oh,” he says dumbly.

"Yeah," Derek replies, feeling just as dumb.

After a long moment, Stiles comes a little closer, almost creeping, as if he’s afraid this whole thing might be some sort of joke. Derek’s arms lift a little, somehow still doing things of their own free will, and Stiles takes it as an invitation to step into them. When Derek makes no move to shake him off, Stiles wraps his arms around Derek in a loose embrace, though he continues to stare. "Like this?" Stiles ventures quietly. "This is okay?"

"This is okay."

Stiles nods slowly. A mischievous grin suddenly breaks out onto his face, and then it dwindles into something less certain. Derek doesn’t like the look of it, so he cocks his head in question. Stiles manages: “It’s really stupid—I just had this idea. Does this mean that I _did_ bewitch you, just not in the way you thought?”

This pulls a surprised snort out of Derek. “If you _have_ to put it that way…”

“Well, you’re the one leaving me ‘non-apology gifts’,” Stiles replies with a shrug, looking pointedly at the empty log. “What was it going to be today?”

Derek clears his throat. “Oh—only something small. Uh, I just picked one up because I saw them in a shop and, well…” From within his pocket, he pulls out a tiny piece of soft marzipan he’d bought in the village, having kept it safe in an empty tin. The sweet has been made with red dye and rounded into the shape of a strawberry, complete with a little clove stem. 

Stiles’s head tilts in curiosity as he takes it gingerly, nibbling a piece and then smiling at the flavor. He eats the rest, thoughtful. “It tastes…like almonds? It’s really good.”

“Almost as good as freshly picked berries,” Derek agrees wryly.

“Oh, yeah!” Stiles exclaims, suddenly indignant at the reminder. His fingers creep up to his temples. “You have no idea how long it took me to get all of those! Half of them won't be in season 'till the fall. I had to enchant the freaking bushes. I can’t believe you just threw them away. In the _stream_.” By the end, his tone is faintly strangled.

Derek winces. “I'm really sorry. My loss, obviously." He clears his throat. "Uh, did you like the other things I left, by the way? I wasn’t really sure...” he trails off helplessly.

Stiles wrinkles his nose in what Derek for a beat fears must be distaste, until he draws back a little to huff out a laugh. "You seem to know me pretty well. It was all perfect. Thank you," he adds, smiling. “And...and actually, so I _do_ kind of like shiny things. Those parts of the myths are true, I guess. It's kind of in my nature or whatever. I can’t really help it,” he admits shyly.

Whether Stiles is aware of it or not, his gaze has drifted down to Derek’s chest. The werewolf realizes suddenly that the iron pendant is still there—he hadn’t thought to take it off at first, and in the days since their fight he’s found it to be a strange comfort, a reminder of Stiles himself. For a beat, though, he worries that Stiles is remembering the details of their argument, the way Derek had only bought the stupid thing to keep him away. Then he realizes it might just be that the metal is catching the moonlight, which casts a silvery sheen onto the swirling ridges. Stiles looks back up at him, smiling, but Derek can feel the last tendrils of uncertainty clinging there.

He leans back to pull the pendant over his head, looping it around the neck of the bewildered fae instead. Stiles blinks down at it, and then at Derek, who laughs. “One more gift,” he says by way of explanation, relishing the way Stiles beams.

A deep sense of fondness rushes over him, and before he can think about it too hard, he gently tugs the pendant to pull Stiles forward, luring him into a kiss. Derek still thinks that something about Stiles tastes vaguely sweet, not just the lingering taste of almond but some strange flavor he can’t name, and he presses his tongue in to taste more of it. Stiles’s breath catches, and Derek feels the fae’s hands slide up over his chest.

The kiss is slow, and Derek savors it all—the way Stiles presses flush against him, the coolness of his skin in the evening air, the way he pants breathlessly before dipping back in for more. 

When they finally part, Stiles curls his hands into Derek’s. His touch is still the slightest bit cooler than a human’s, and it makes Derek stare curiously down at his pale skin. “You know, if those old stories aren’t true, you’ll have to tell me what is true about the fae. About you.”

Stiles hums, and then his smile turns playful as he leans in for another kiss. “I think it’ll be more fun if you learn that for yourself.”

~*~

Derek does.

He learns that Stiles is never so quiet as he is when Derek himself is speaking, that the fae’s full curiosity is a heady thing, and that Stiles is as determined to puzzle out Derek’s oddities as Derek is Stiles’s. He learns that it’s in Stiles’s nature to barter, but the fae doesn’t mind dealing in kisses, and Derek is the only person with whom he doesn’t track his trades. He learns that Stiles can’t decipher human writing but likes to hear to Derek read aloud, and that Stiles is especially drawn to the books of star-crossed lovers and long-lost siblings and silly poems that Derek brings from the village. 

He learns that Stiles may be a lone fae, but he has a loyal following among the woodland fauna, who appear around the cabin so often that Derek thinks he might have to stop hunting in the forest at all. He learns that Stiles truly enjoys his little tricks: flower crowns in Derek’s hair when he wakes from a nap, bullfrogs in his pantry, all the silverware vanished from his kitchen and found later in odd places. He learns that Stiles hates sleeping indoors, but on warm spring nights he’ll curl drowsily into Derek’s side as they lie on the grass under the open sky.

He learns that his werewolf lie detector is unnecessary, because only the most powerful fae can tell even a white lie, and Stiles is, by his own proclamation, the “super basic garden variety” kind of fae. Even so, Derek learns that he likes the way Stiles’s heart beats, quiet but steady as ever, when at last he says the words “I love you.”

Many months later, Derek heads to the blacksmith’s shop once more, an irregular visit on a day when he’d normally be home. Stiles is off somewhere in the woods, having been recruited in the early hours of the morning to help some poor goblins “who barely know night from day.” Derek’s taken the opportunity to sneak out here, where he stares thoughtfully at the jewelry in the back of the shop without his partner any the wiser.

“Another protective amulet?” the blacksmith asks as he turns away from another customer, wiping grime from his hands. “An iron sigil for that fae, I'm guessing?”

Derek shakes his head, drawing his mother's ring out of his pocket. He thumbs the place where one prong skews crookedly to the side. “Is there any way this can be repaired and cleaned?”

The blacksmith comes closer, scratching his head. “Don’t see why not. I can fix that prong right up so the sapphire stays snug in the setting, and then we'll scrub those dark bits away." He scrutinizes Derek for a moment. “Though I’m curious who it’s for.”

Derek smiles. “I met someone. In the woods. He...wasn’t who I originally expected,” he adds.

The blacksmith stares at him dubiously. “Not a fae, mind?” When Derek doesn’t answer right away, he hurries on: “They can be tricky creatures, you know? Dangerous. You never know if you’ve been enchanted, or if they have you right where they want you.”

Derek looks at the glittering stone and then back up at the man. “Actually,” he says at last, smiling, “I think I have _him_ right where I want him.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cheering* you get some fluff, and you get some fluff, and everyone gets some fluff!
> 
> ...what a pair of awkward dummies :,) Anyway, thanks so much for reading this far! Kudos and comments seriously make my day, so if you enjoyed it please let me know!


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